


Chirality

by Exxact



Category: Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Body Differences, Brentaal Futures Program, Coming Untouched, First Time, Hand Jobs, Loss of Virginity, Lots of Kisses for Galen, M/M, Mostly Pwp, Nipple Play, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Fixation, Thumb-sucking for comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 11:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10898664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exxact/pseuds/Exxact
Summary: “There’s nobody left besides us on our floor,” Orson says with a pointed look, the warmth of his voice sincere under the exaggerated gasps.  “C’mon, let’s do it.”“All of it?”  Galen manages to quip, feigning shock.“Yes.  No.  Whatever you want.”  Orson’s eyes are wide, pleading.  “Kisses, touches…”The cavalier charm has evaporated from Orson’s voice, leaving only a boyish whine in its stead.  “Maybe even a little more.  If you’d like.”





	Chirality

**Author's Note:**

> A quick content note: While Krennic is 19 here (making Galen 24), it’s alluded to that he had sex as a minor with boys who weren't Galen. No specifics are given, but it’s something to keep in mind that I didn’t think warranted the “Underage” warning.

Galen watches as the academy’s shuttles depart, flickers of dark movement against the vibrancy of Brentaal’s sunset, his chest tight with an anticipation and anxiety that fade into one another like the bleeding blues and pinks past the corridor’s transparisteel wall.

 

This is the first term break they’ve had since Orson came of age, the first time in the months they’ve been exploring Galen’s growing willingness towards affection beyond friendship that they’ll be alone on the upperclassmen boy’s floor, unsupervised by RA droids and rowdy students. They’ll be unbothered by alarms or schedules, free to experiment with much more than muffled kisses in the lab and cautious embraces behind the architecture compound at curfew.

  
  
Galen, despite his anxiety, knows that he faces no actual danger should he choose either to give in to Orson’s raunchy pleas or to simply carry on as usual, perhaps sharing a few more kisses with him between his thesis work. He trusts Orson, despite his stubbornness, his impetuousness, his vulgarity. He attempts to remind himself of this as he hears the lift draw closer to the docking site on the lower Planetary Sciences floor, distracted instead by thoughts of just how impossibly, brilliantly motivated Orson has become alongside his surlier traits. His energy thrills Galen even as it worries him, makes him consider once again what sort of path Orson will direct such drive towards as they age out of the Academy. How will he make his way throughout the galaxy when he devours Galen the moment he initiates a kiss or simply takes his hand? How can such hunger sustain him?

 

“Galen Walton Erso,” Orson purrs playfully, his smile reflected against the transparisteel every bit as wicked as it had been on the day they’d met years ago in this same lift. “Just the man I was hoping to see.”

 

Before he can reply, Orson’s snaked a hand around his collar and pulled Galen into a kiss. He quickly eases his mind into the rush of Orson’s mouth against his—the soft pressure of their joined lips, the thrill of intimacy that follows.

 

“Missed you all day,” Orson moans as Galen kisses his chin, his fingertips carding against the tender nape of Galen’s neck. “In Community Meeting, during my boring Planetary lab…”

 

“You were thinking about this?” Galen asks, emboldened by the sudden urgency he feels to guide Orson’s palm downwards, to let him feel the shuddering pulse within his throat.

 

“More than this,” Orson replies with a wiggle of his fingertips against Galen’s jaw. He’s met with a frustrated smirk, which he quickly sees fit to kiss off of Galen’s mouth.

 

“There’s nobody left besides us on our floor,” Orson says with a pointed look, the warmth of his voice sincere under the exaggerated gasps. “C’mon, let’s do it.”

 

“All of it?” Galen manages to quip, feigning shock.

 

“Yes. No. Whatever you want.” Orson’s eyes are wide, pleading. “Kisses, touches…”

 

The cavalier charm has evaporated from Orson’s voice, leaving only a boyish whine in its stead. “Maybe even a little more. If you’d like.”

 

Galen nods. The thought of “a little more” with Orson sends him careening back into hesitance, fear spiking beneath his skin. Still, he can’t resist the urge to nudge Orson’s downturned cheek gently with his nose, to soothe at least one of them into easiness.

 

“Too sweet,” Orson murmurs, letting his chin rest against Galen’s jaw until the lift doors open onto their dorm’s floor.

 

Orson immediately brightens, tugging Galen’s hand until they’re charging down the empty hallway towards his bunk, their mules kicked off for the cleaning droids to find.

 

“C’mon!” he shouts, using his free hand to unsnap the first of his tunic’s fastenings, the lining fluttering against his undershirt like ungainly wings while Galen struggles to keep pace, his sock-clad feet sliding dangerously alongside Orson’s.

 

“Take me to bed,” Orson pants once they reach his bunk, collapsing onto it dramatically and pulling Galen atop him. “Take me to bed and make me yours.”

 

Galen’s eyes narrow at the scripted line, though Orson’s enthusiasm still catches against his pounding chest. Orson wants this, wants _him_ , even if he’s relying on rehearsed phrases to express as much.

 

“Okay.” Galen chokes on the word, overcome with sensation as he allows Orson to undo his tunic, helping him to squirm out of his undershirt until Orson is beneath him, half-exposed and delighted. He is narrow where Galen is broad, hints of softness along his lower belly and biceps fading into the flat plane of his pectorals and ribs. Galen finds himself fascinated by how such a similar body plan can vary so drastically from his own, can cause the familiar sight of chest and waist and hips to make his breath shudder from him against Orson’s jaw. _They are chiral_ , Galen thinks, cautiously allowing his fingertips to rest atop Orson’s chest in curiosity. _Mirror images of the same man._

 

“You can look all you like,” Orson coos, wiggling his shoulders as though he had breasts to tease Galen with, “But I think that you need some hands-on experience.”

 

Galen swallows an aroused whimper, sinking down against Orson and taking one of the soft pink nipples before him between his lips. He feels himself settle into the give-and-take of his mouth against it, the disconnect from the physical world that he frequently feels easing away as he listens to Orson’s heartbeat, his sharp breaths.

 

“I’m not a girl, you know,” Orson laughs, poking Galen’s bicep. “It doesn’t feel the same.”

 

Galen’s mind swirls into distraction from the task at hand. He rests his chin against Orson’s pectoral, staring down at the puckered, blushing skin. “ _I should’ve known_ ,” he tries to say, _“Male mammals rarely produce milk and thus have no need for sensitivity in their nipples, even though both common sexes have the same amount of nerve endings present_.”  Instead, he remains silent, as unable to form the words together as he is able to meet Orson’s eyes.

 

“That doesn’t mean it feels bad,” Orson adds quickly. “It’s nice. Romantic.”

 

Galen nearly frowns, unsure of how licking Orson’s nipples fits the definition of the word, though he keeps his mouth pressed to his skin, guiding himself lower, aiming for the soft curve of Orson’s belly. He worries that he’s left too much untouched beneath it, though he can’t resist the urge to gently lap the flat of his tongue just above the waistband of Orson’s briefs. His palms follow the lines of Orson’s hips while he experiments with kisses beside Orson’s navel, chancing to drag them lower before returning to the softer, safer territory that arouses Galen further every time he brushes his fingertips or mouth along it.

 

Orson’s torso is heaving against the mattress now, his body clearly desperate to finish even as his mouth opens with a quivering, irritated cry. “Not gonna last,” he keens, startling Galen with the desperation in his voice. Orson is easily impressed beyond his bravado, Galen has learned, especially when he is involved. It makes Galen ache in a way he can’t describe, past sympathy and beyond concern, causing him to question who Orson shared himself with in the years of their friendship before this moment, whether the boys who left bites above Orson’s collar ever thought of his pleasure.

 

Instead of ceasing his motions, Galen smiles reassuringly up at him, encouraging the thrusts of his hips into the soft movements of his hand against them. Just as he rises to dapple kisses along Orson’s heaving shoulders and chest, he feels the low, tense release of Orson’s body against his.

 

“Sorry about that,” Orson pants, his eyes closed while Galen continues to mouth at his ears, his plump lower lip. “I’ve just been wanting you to do that for a long time. Years, you know.”

 

Galen sniffs, the meaning of the noise inscrutable even to himself. Is he skeptical? Pleased? Embarrassed?

 

Orson tilts his head, his eyes wide and eager. “I’ll do you now. Handjob or blowjob?”

 

Galen pulls back, uncertain of how to proceed. He’s softened from the anxiety of realizing his turn to be touched and vulnerable has come, from the uncertainty of his own body and mind’s reaction to stimulation outside of his own. He desires Orson’s hands and mouth and body, and yet the self-preserving instinct within him denies this want, shouts that this coupling is destined for an end as volatile as Orson himself should Galen open himself so.

 

“Maybe tomorrow,” he murmurs, ignoring the pull he feels to change his mind the moment he catches Orson’s devious smile and feels himself harden. He watches, unsatisfied, as Orson’s mouth forms into a familiar pout, though he seems to understand that the line now drawn across Galen’s lips is not to be crossed. In lieu of a response, he kicks off his soiled trousers, reaching under his bunk for a clean pair of briefs. Galen follows suit, tugging off his undershirt and lying on his back in only his socks and underwear, his eyes downcast.

 

“C’mere,” Orson mutters, already half-asleep before he’s sunk into bed. He sprawls himself along Galen, his head resting against Galen’s cheek and his own pillow in equal parts. The closeness is pure pleasure for Galen, far more arousing than he’d assumed such contact could be without kisses or touches to accompany it. He’s slowly hardening from it, uncertain of whether or not he hopes that Orson will feel his erection against his inner thigh in sleep and snake a hand between them to relieve him of it.

 

Galen winces at the thought, slipping his thumb between his lips. _Only for a moment_ , he tells himself, ignoring the foreign taste of Orson’s skin that’s seeped into his own. Just so he’ll fall asleep quickly and avoid disturbing Orson with his tossing and turning. He won’t keep it in all night like he had when he’d first come to the Academy, when he’d woken up to stinging words and even crueler propositions.

 

This moment is far removed from his time without Orson, however, and soon the motions of the familiar habit soothe Galen, allowing him to enjoy the sensation of Orson held close against him, easing him into sleep.

 

 

+

Orson’s been grinning since he woke up, since his mind immediately registered the identity of the body snug against his own. It’s just _right_ , he thinks, that Galen should be in his bunk, curled half-against the wall while Orson rests along his side, tucked close. He lazily blinks his eyes open, noticing that Galen’s shifted in his sleep, his back turned away from Orson’s prone figure. Carefully, barely tugging at the blankets, Orson leans over, poising himself to pounce Galen awake.

 

Instead, Orson stops himself, staring down at Galen. He’s deeply asleep, knees snug against his belly, his right thumb lodged firmly in his mouth. He’s not nursing it, Orson notices, not really; his lips are only occasionally twitching against it, as though this were a common occurrence and not one of the most arousing sights Orson can think of.

 

“Fucking hot,” he moans, grinning sheepishly when Galen’s eyes snap open and the length of his thigh brushes Orson’s erection. He regrets his words immediately once Galen sits up abruptly, frozen against the wall in shock or fear, letting out shallow, ragged breaths.

 

“Shhh,” Orson murmurs, trying fruitlessly not to stare at the spot where Galen’s very prominent, very leaking erection now strains against his briefs. “Didn’t mean to spook you. You just look so good like this.”

 

Orson reminds himself to stay still despite wanting to pull Galen close, especially since Galen’s thumb remains between his lips, his cock tantalizingly close to Orson’s knee. Finally, when the fingers of Galen’s unoccupied hand come to brush across Orson’s lower lip, he knows that he can’t hold back anymore.

 

“Can I touch it?” he asks, mimicking Galen’s shy touches against his hair and ears.

 

Galen nods, slowly withdrawing his thumb from his mouth. The shame drawn across his expression hurts Orson as much as it angers him, dragging a fury against Orson’s lower belly that he expels in a huff of breath.

 

“I’m sorry, Orson,” Galen says softly. “I didn’t mean—“

 

“Don’t apologize. Just let me stroke you off!”

 

Galen pulls a familiar put-upon face, shaking his head at Orson’s laughter. Galen trusts him, he thinks with fresh wonder, with joyful disbelief. Someone so brilliant and patient and  _good_ wants him, believes that he deserves to be closer to him than anyone else in the galaxy. It intoxicates Orson, spurring him into initiating a deep kiss that Galen immediately reciprocates.

 

Galen allows Orson to ease him downwards, letting him study the way the flush across his cheeks blooms above his small dark nipples, fading into the hair that covers his chest. Orson’s too curious to spend long stroking his fingers though it, instead tugging Galen’s briefs down so that he can finally get a good look at his cock. Orson practically moans at how hard and ready he is, at how full and aching he must be. He watches Galen carefully as he readies himself for the first slow, loose strokes, rewarding every upward flicker of his eyes with a kiss above each brow.

 

“Yeah, there you go. Stay right on your back so that I can see where my hand is. Still feels good, right?”

 

Galen whines, thrusting upwards into Orson’s hand. He’s leaking enough that they won’t need any lotion, though Orson still spits into his palm after indulgently licking away the slickness on his fingertips. The taste goes straight to his cock, which has been fully hard since he’d first seen Galen posed in his bed like the best wet dream he can imagine.

 

Galen moans and gasps for breath at the same time, his eyes fixated on Orson’s smirking, glossy lips.

 

“Couldn’t resist,” Orson growls playfully, ducking his face down and swiping his tongue along the head of his cock before Galen can protest. The strangled moan that comes out instead is better, but Orson can tell that he’s holding himself back.

 

The noise Galen makes when he sucks it between his lips, however, is _perfect_ , a screaming wail that could’ve made the sagest Jedi Master blush. Orson thinks with no small amount of pride that he’s never heard Galen finish like that before, not even in all the years he’d played voyeur to Galen in the shower before he’d come of age.

 

Orson pants, bearing himself down and grinding half against Galen’s hip, half against the rumpled blankets. He spends within moments, burying his nose at the root of Galen’s twitching, flaccid cock, taking in his scent.

  
  
Galen bites his lip, watching intently as Orson lifts his head, nudging along his jaw until Orson kisses him, soft and careful in case he doesn’t want to taste himself.

 

“Galen,” Orson exhales as he pulls away, flopping backwards and rubbing his cheek against his pillow, smiling. “Galen, Galen, Galen.”

 

Galen turns onto his side as well, his nose brushing Orson’s while he tucks his folded arms against his face. He’s leaving now, Orson thinks sullenly. Back into his mind, far away from Orson until his rapid thoughts will allow him to surface.

 

“Ten minutes without thinking really did a number on you, huh?”

 

Galen purses his lips, closing his eyes. “You think analytically just as often as I do. Your thoughts just happen to be organized, though you never allow me to explain why that is.”

 

Orson laughs, nudging Galen’s shoulder with his own. “Well, I know what you’re thinking about. And trust me, I’d rather fumble around with you than get plowed all night by Arcas any time.”

 

“Fumbling would get old rather quickly, I’d imagine,” Galen says offhandedly, not even attempting to argue against Orson’s assumptions as he so often does. An ugly shame settles around the edges of Orson’s mind, threatening to overtake his rational decision to watch, motionless, as Galen sits up, covering his nakedness with a sheet.

 

Orson allows Galen his moment of irritation, waits while he stares over the bunk and out the window, silent and still. It’s only once Orson sees the tension leave his shoulders that he dares to begin trailing kisses up Galen’s spine.

 

“Then,” Orson murmurs, rising to kiss Galen’s temple once he’s run out of skin, “we’ll just have to practice, won’t we?”

 


End file.
